


Feel It in the Space Between

by marauders_groupie



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-06 00:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6729229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauders_groupie/pseuds/marauders_groupie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dancing comes easy to some people, as easy as drinking water. They move and it feels right.</p><p>To Clarke, dancing is a battle, it’s a fight, it’s more bloody knuckles than soft swaying, so she watches Bellamy, his body contorting perfectly like there’s an invisible hand guiding him. She’s doing it mechanically and he’s always going to do it with soul.</p><p>But when she dances with him, the rest of the world falls away and they might be good on their own, but they are better together. </p><p>*</p><p>Prompt: "Clarke is new to the dance studio and Bellamy doesn't like her but they have to work together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel It in the Space Between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellsblakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellsblakes/gifts).



> Dear Lyla, I know it took me a long time to get to this but I hope it was worth it. I hope you'll like it because I liked writing it, and I also may or may not have fallen into the hole that is contemporary dance. Seriously. You should see my Youtube history.
> 
> I have to say that I don't have any sort of legit background in dancing. I just love doing it. So this is gonna be really vague, just a heads up!
> 
> Title is from Oh Wonder - Lose it, and I recommend listening to it as you read.
> 
> Enjoy!

** April 2016 **

****

When Clarke dances with Bellamy, the rest of the world falls away. It’s just the two of them, skin to skin, heartbeats in sync and music. Nothing else matters at all.

There is wild grace in his movements, from the first jeté to the last arch, and he pulls her in like he’s pulled in the rest of them – the world is Bellamy Blake’s sparkling toy and he’ll do whatever the hell he pleases.

But it hasn’t always been like this, falling to the floor with sweat sticking to their skin and laughing even though their throats are dry, muscles bound to hurt in the morning. It hasn’t always been sunset high in the windows and their bodies low.

“We did good, huh?” he asks, squeezing her hand a little where she’s sprawled on the floor next to him. The wood still pulsates with their erratic movements, push and pull. This choreography suits them.

Clarke hums in confirmation and runs her hand through her hair, finds him doing the same. “We’re better together.”

The smattering of freckles across his cheeks dances when he beams at her, his smile putting creases in his skin and in her heart, too. Just a little bit. It doesn’t matter, that he makes her feel like flying even when her day has been shitty and the rain won’t stop falling.

“Took us long enough.”

It hasn’t always been like this.

 

 

** October 2015 **

****

At first, it’s just scoffs and sneers. Clarke dragging her tired body to the studio every Tuesday and Friday, almost out of protest against the smirking asshole with tight shirts and shoulders too broad to be graceful at all, and Bellamy looking like he’s got an itch only she can scratch.

“Still haven’t given up, huh, Princess?” he taunts, leaning against the wall in his workout clothes. He’s all chiseled muscles, the vee of his hipbones as if carved from marble. He’s gorgeous, of course he is, and she’s still got paint stains on her shirt from where little Charlotte spilled a bucket of paint accidentally.

“Not on your life, Blake.”

So she keeps going, rolls her eyes whenever they’re practicing and Bellamy just stops out of the blue, making everyone else groan. Kane, their choreographer, included.

“What’s the problem now, Bellamy?” he sighs, exasperated.

“She’s doing it wrong.”

Raven wraps her fingers around Clarke’s wrist, whispers, “I’ll hold him down, and you punch him.” Clarke smiles at her thankfully before whirling around to face Bellamy.

“You think you can do better?”

He scoffs at that, muscles flexing as he squares his shoulders. Too broad, his hair is too messy, the glint in his eye too tempting. “The thing is, Griffin, I _know_ I can do better.”

And he can. Kane turns the music on again and Bellamy takes her spot, repeating her exact same moves except they’re not the same – not really. He’s doing something else, something Clarke can’t put her finger on, but it still makes her slump to the floor in silent defeat.

Dancing comes easy to some people, as easy as drinking water. They move and you can feel the unity with the universe in their bones. They move and it feels _right_.

To Clarke, dancing is blood and viscera, muscles spasming after a long practice, beads of sweat pooling in her collarbone. To her, it’s a battle, it’s a fight, it’s more bloody knuckles than soft swaying.

So she watches Bellamy, his body contorting perfectly like there’s an invisible hand guiding him, and all it does is make her ache with emptiness. She’s doing it mechanically and he’s always going to do it with soul. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t exactly follow the steps – it looks good.

When the music stops, he exhales, leaning forward, palms on his knees and eyes fixed on her. “So, what’s the verdict, Griffin? Better than you?”

An unruly curl falls into his eyes and he blows it away, eyes eager as he waits for her answer. He’s breathless and gorgeous and she wonders why he has to taunt her when dancing is all that she’s got to keep her from an empty apartment and walls full of memories. Can he smell the despair on her, does it stick to her skin and invite vultures to feast?

“Perfect as always, Blake,” she shoots back, knowing that it’s weak, but he still smirks. Some days, she wonders if that’s always been his first line of defense.

This time, she stands right next to him as Murphy boos like they’re in elementary school and not a bunch of grown ass adults who just like dancing. Kane plays the song again, A Thousand Years, and Clarke realizes that it’s probably going to take as much for her to stop hating Bellamy fucking Blake.

For the rest of the song, she just keeps going. She knows the steps, would know them if Kane burst into her apartment in the middle of the night and made her demonstrate, but she can’t help feeling that she’s doing something wrong. It sure as hell doesn’t feel as right as it does when Bellamy is doing it.

Her muscles are too stiff, her arms sort of flail where he’s calculated and firm, and she barely makes it to the last chord before bitterness rises in the back of her throat. They finish the choreography with Bellamy wrapped around her body, a story about people meeting and falling in love, but Clarke is shaking where Bellamy is just vibrating with excitement.

It takes him just a second to notice that something is going on and then he’s frowning. “Clarke? What’s wrong?”

His hands are still on her hips but his fingers start drumming an impatient rhythm against her bones and dancing has always felt like putting order into chaos, but now it’s the other way around and she gets up so fast she gets a little dizzy.

It’s not until she’s gotten her things and rushed out into the street, first breath of cool autumn air filling her lungs, that her heart’s stopped beating a wild tattoo against her ribs. The stars shine high in the sky above her, her wrists are full of green and blue paint smudges, and Clarke feels worthless.

Everyone else pours out into the street through the main exit, giddy chatter filling the air and mixing with the music coming from the bar at the end of the block, and Clarke presses her back against the building, wishes for no one to find her.

When she hears footsteps coming her way, she knows it’s Blake. She’d know the sound of him any day, it’s been haunting her dreams ever since he took one good, long look at her and rolled his eyes at the beginning of her first practice.

Spite has gotten her places but now she just wants to go home. What she gets instead is Bellamy Blake in a leather jacket and jeans, hair sticking to his forehead and a sheepish expression.

“I’m an asshole. This is a formal apology,” he says, shoving his hands into his back pockets. “I’ve taken it too far this time.”

Clarke swats away at her cheeks, grits her teeth when she tastes salt. “Not your fault I can’t dance.”

A beat of silence and then, incredulous, “Wait, you think I – “ He laughs and it stings. “God, Clarke, I don’t think you can’t dance. I _know_ you can.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?”

He smiles crookedly at her. “A whole bunch of shit, yeah. But that’s not the point. I know you can dance, it’s just like you don’t want to.”

It’s all she wants to do so the joke’s on him, really. Clarke drops her head on the wall, exhaling. Her mom would say she’s gonna catch a cold, wet hair and cold air, but she doesn’t care. If she doesn’t breathe in and breathe out, ignore Blake next to her, she’s going to choke to death.

He shifts uncomfortably and then joins her, close enough for their elbows to brush. “You need to let go, be free, Princess. It’s – “

“As simple as that?” Clarke scoffs. “I haven’t felt free for a very long time so it’s really not.”

Bellamy nods, his posture becoming firmer as his gaze becomes softer. She doesn’t know how to deal with this, not when he was cruel just half an hour ago.

“Freedom isn’t easy for us.”

“Us?”

His gaze drops from her to the street below them and suddenly he looks as weighed down as she feels. “We’re both the sort of people others rely on, aren’t we?”

Clarke thinks of her friends, her students, her family, and nods. “I am.”

“I could smell it all over you.” He scrunches up his nose in mock disgust. “ _Responsibility_.”

“I’m not the one who brought soup for Miller when his boyfriend broke up with him.”

“Hey,” he admonishes lightly, elbowing her in the ribs. “I was just being a good friend.”

“Mm, sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Bellamy Blake pouting is going to be the death of her and so Clarke laughs with her eyes closed, tension in her head dissipating. When she opens her eyes again, Bellamy’s looking at her, something inexplicable in his gaze.

“I can help you,” he offers, “with letting loose and having fun.”

“I can be fun.”

“Sure you can, Clarke.”

“I _can_!”

He’s too pretty when he smirks. “So prove it. Dance with me.”

“Now?” she asks, trying not to sound scandalized, but fails. It still makes her heart flip with excitement. There’s something about that image – dancing with Bellamy Blake in the soft yellow light overhead, nothing but the two of them and the faint sound of music.

And then he smiles, shrugs, picture of boyish charm. “Yeah. It’s now or never, right?”

She takes his hand when he offers it and the bar is playing Nick Cage. Their moves have nothing to do with the dancing they do in the studio but he still holds her close, she still trips on his feet and when he laughs, the sound reverberates in his chest, pricks at her skin.

They’re dancing in the middle of the street and all Clarke can think about is how there’s got to be some sort of magic in Bellamy Blake to make her feel like she is untethered, even if just for a second, and free to fly.

 

 

** December 2015 **

 

They do this sometimes:

Bellamy catches her hand in free fall and smiles at her as he twirls her around. The studio is empty, no one but the two of them. Her hoodie is too loose around her body, his shirt sticks to his skin with sweat. If she could trace every muscle with her finger, she would, but he’s untouchable.

Even when he’s arching into her, making her bend her spine without making it seem like she’s giving up, he’s untouchable with his pearly white smile. When he makes her let go, his smile is as victorious as the drums of the song he’s playing from his phone.

They do this sometimes, dance and let the world fall away between the daily eight to five grind and free happy hour martinis.

They do this sometimes and when he holds a hand to her skin, Clarke feels like burning up.

“Is it gonna be weird if I ditch my shirt?” he asks when the music stops and their fingers disentangle. She shouldn’t feel the empty space where his warmth was but she still does.

Clarke eyes him for a second and then shrugs. “Is it gonna be weird if I ditch mine?”

He shakes his head, seemingly calm, but she can see him swallowing hard. If she asked him, he’d blame it on the exertion that’s bound to leave his muscles aching for the rest of the week.

Bellamy is made from the strangest kind of marble, dark skin and freckles even across his chest. He catches her staring and Clarke pulls off her hoodie, leaving her in nothing but a sports bra, almost defiant. She’s always envied people like him; unapologetic of who they are.

To her, the world has always felt like a cage. Shrink, be small, curl into yourself and when you decide to stop doing it, be rebellious about it. Show yourself fiercely.

(But her muscles aren’t cooperating. It’s hard to fake something, especially when there’s Bellamy who’s never had to fake a single thing in his life.)

“Looking good, Griffin,” he says, smirking, but it’s playful and she doesn’t mind it. Instead, she stands up straighter, beckons him over with a waggle of her finger.

“Come and get me, Blake.”

The music is loud, all war drums and war declarations, but she keeps laughing until her stomach starts hurting, every muscle lit on fire. He curls into her, she curls into him, feet moving fast and heart even faster. It’s wild and erratic and it’s fun, the purest kind she has seen in a long while.

Whenever she smiles, Bellamy raises his eyebrows, as if saying _I told you so_. It’s easy like this, nothing to do with choreography, just making it up as they go along. The speakers keep blaring Radioactive and Clarke is pretty sure the two of them _are_.

They do this sometimes: Clarke stops apologizing for who she is and Bellamy grits his teeth leaning into her. “That’s it, Clarke,” he whispers against the skin of her neck, hips pressed into hers as they find a precarious balance inches from the floor. “That’s it, just let go.”

With him, it doesn’t feel like giving up or giving in, sacrificing her power.

With him, she is bowing and bending, but she isn’t breaking.

 

Everyone in their group keeps wondering how it is that Bellamy and Clarke aren’t fighting anymore. Some of them know what they’ve been doing, it’s not a secret, but it’s still different. Now it’s easier and Kane’s visibly relaxed when they practice these days.

Clarke learns the choreography, learns how to move, a little looser now, her hips following the same beat her shoulders would latch onto instinctively, but it’s work.

When Bellamy lingers in the doorway after practice, that’s when she feels her lips tugging up in a smile. That’s when the real fun begins.

Some nights, though, they don’t feel like dancing in the studio. Some nights, he collapses on the floor next to her and asks her if she just wants to get a beer, so they stumble to the bar down the street, find a table and get to know each other.

At first, it’s just bits and pieces. He is a history teacher and the first time he tells her so, Clarke has to keep her lips pressed together not to break out into a grin.

“A history teacher? You?”

“History is fun,” he deadpans. She can almost imagine him in a tweed jacket, pressed slacks, neatly ironed shirt. She can imagine the order and the underlying hint of absolute chaos he seems to love so much.

His sister is the one who got him into it, she finds out. “I had to take her to ballet lessons when she was a kid. Every single day. It was just me and the other moms. When I wouldn’t gossip, the only thing left to do was to watch them dancing and I liked it. There was something freeing to it, you know? Whenever Octavia had a bad day, she’d turn on the radio and dance all around our shitty apartment.”

Clarke remembers doing the same. She’s never done ballet, her bones were always too heavy, her hips too wide, but she loved dancing. It didn’t matter what sort of beat was coming from the TV or her headphones, she could pick it up, sway with it, dive in and play with the waves.

“So how did this happen? The serious history teacher and contemporary dance?” she asks, knocking her shoulder against his. The bar is crowded but the two of them managed to create a little pocket of space in which they can’t be harmed. It’s good, with him, time trickles away instead of running like a wild river.

A small smile crosses his lips as he wraps his fingers around his pint and takes a sip. “When I dance, it makes me joyful. It’s like nothing can touch me as long as the music is playing.”

Clarke nods, takes a sip of her own, watches him watching her. And then, “I forgot it’s supposed to be about fun.”

“You’re taking it as a chore.”

“I guess?” She worries her lower lip, searching for words but, as always, she’s clumsy. They keep slipping through her fingers. “It used to be fun. Now it’s just practical, another box to tick off. But it’s fun when I’m dancing with _you_. I don’t know why it can’t be like that all the time.”

They’ve held hands sometimes, for choreography. They’re telling a story with their bodies, that’s what dancing is all about. But when Bellamy takes her hand in the shitty bar that doesn’t serve anything but watered-down wine and bitter beer, it’s different. It’s _more_.

She’s too old for her heart to flip, for his thumb tracing patterns into her skin to make her feel light and giddy, but she lets it. Just for a night, as his eyes crinkle in the corners with his smile.

“We’ll get you there, trust me.”

The words have rolled over her lips before she can stop them. “I do.”

 

 

** February 2016 **

 

They start texting, too. He lets her know about the funny shit his students said and she does the same. They’re both teachers and it makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is that she smiles from ear to ear whenever her phone pings with his text, filling her chest with warmth.

The days are short and dark, snow won’t stop falling, but Clarke rushes to every practice with a skip in her step that has Raven eyeing her warily.

After the practices – well, that’s when she shines, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she waits for Bellamy to play something they can dance to. He has the weirdest shit on his phone, from Adele covers to Pentatonix to Bob Dylan they just chill out to after they’ve danced for hours.

They fall in step with each other, finding rhythm they can follow, and Clarke thinks she might be imagining it, but it’s like every song is an excuse for one to touch the other. Clarke clings to his shoulders when Elastic Heart plays and then she pushes him away. Magnetism filling their hollow bones, joy making her heart implode to Just Give Me a Reason.

Whichever song he chooses, it’s perfect, and he knows it. His gaze lingers on her longer when he thinks she can’t see him, but she still feels him. Even with her back turned away as she tries to quench her thirst, she can feel him looking. Watching. Not predatory, not like she’s the kingdom that he wants to conquer, but with understanding. The deep kind that makes her feel like flying even with both feet on the ground.

So Clarke shifts her weight, muscles stretching as she tilts toward him, knowing that he’s going to catch her every single time.

Dancing in the studio turns into dancing in her living room after she invites him for a dinner on Valentine’s Day.

“You got any plans?” she asks and Bellamy hesitates.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

At that, she’s got to laugh. There’s a reason why he avoids relationships and she doesn’t care because she’s got her reasons, too. They’re better untethered. They’re better free and together.

“No, I’m asking if you want to be single and awesome with me on Valentine’s.”

“Oh, that,” he grins. “Yeah, of course.”

Clarke can’t cook for shit but he can. He putters around her kitchen with practiced ease as she sits on the kitchen island and pours them wine. He’s wearing glasses today, sliding down his nose, and when his hands are greasy with preparing the food, she fixes it for him.

“There, now it’s perfect,” she says, perching herself up on the island again before he can comment. All he does is duck his head, hiding a small smile that has her flushing. He doesn’t see it and she thinks it’s better that way.

Raven tells her that it’s a losing game, the way Clarke’s playing it, but Clarke isn’t doing anything at all. All the chemistry between them is just dancing, nothing more to it. They fit but they don’t belong with each other.

His shoulders drop and rise with the rhythm of a catchy pop tune playing on the radio and Clarke traces little circles in the air with her leg. When they catch each other dancing without meaning to, their grins are matching.

“See, _that’s_ joy,” he points out and Clarke just rolls her eyes. “I’m serious, Clarke.”

“Can you not be serious today, though? Just feed me already.”

 He flicks his water-soaked fingers at her and Clarke squeals, readying the tomato sauce-stained rag. The food burns on the stove as they chase each other, stopping only when they realize how ridiculous they are, and then they’re impossibly close, Bellamy crowding her against the counter with his pupils blown so wide that it leaves Clarke breathless.

She’s still holding the rag and the water from Bellamy’s fingers drips on her linoleum floor, but he’s hovering above her and it’s different. Dancing is dancing, this is –

Serotonin, probably. “Joy, huh?” she teases, trying to light the tension. It takes him a second and then he laughs out loud, too, moving away from where his hands could radiate warmth without even touching her skin.

When he leaves that night, he pecks her cheek, mashed potato smudge on the tip of his nose.

Clarke lies and tells herself that it’s nothing, nothing at all.

 

 

** April 2016 **

 

It hasn’t always been like this but it is now. She’s lying on the floor next to him, heads bowed together, and the sight of Bellamy trying to get to his breath blows her away.

His lips are parted slightly, red and swollen like she bets they’d look if she kissed him as much as she wants to, and his eyes are fluttering closed every now and then, dimples in his cheeks because he’s the best kind of tired.

It makes her crave more and she knows it’s a losing game, it always will be, but she rolls on her hip, props her head up on her palm, and just looks at him.

“It’s impolite to stare, Clarke,” he scolds playfully, but his hand reaches for a stray curl that’s fallen out of her bun. Infinitely gentle, he tucks it behind her ear.

This is what she doesn’t know what to do with – these gazes of his, softening when his eyes fall on her, these little moments that make her wonder if they’re really just friends or if the way they dance has leaked into who they are to each other.

With him, it’s always been about respect and equality. Even in the beginning, when she couldn’t shake away the chains always keeping her from reaching higher, that little piece of her brain that would whisper “You look ridiculous in this stance” – even then, he’d reach for her hand and unwind the knots in her shoulders just by looking at her.

So of course she’s fallen in love with him. Who wouldn’t fall in love with Bellamy Blake, with his stupid history facts when she’s had a bad day and doesn’t feel like dancing, texts full of cat memes, dancing like he’s found his freedom a long time ago and now wants the whole world to know how good it feels.

He wants _Clarke_ to know how good it feels.

“It’s impolite to look at me the way you’re doing it now,” she shoots back, but there’s no heat to it. He stops immediately, as if suspended in time and space, with his fingers just brushing the skin of her cheek.

She swears there’s fear and lust combined in his eyes, and that’s what makes her lean down, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, heartbeat rapid as she places a palm on his chest and then finally – finally – kisses him.

For a second, neither of them move.

It turns into two, three, four seconds, and an unbearable sense of wrongness overwhelms her, feet slipping against the floor in haste to get away, cheeks burning up with shame.

Bellamy is just looking at her, eyes wide, and he’s quiet. He’s just _stopped_ , even if it’s always looked like he has to be doing something – fingers tapping against every surface available, even if it’s just her hip and they’re waiting for their cue to start dancing.

“Shit, Bellamy, I’m sorry.”

He’s still on the floor when she gets up, the primal feeling of rejection making bile rise up in her throat. There’s no going back from this, she knows.

“I’m – we’ll – I’ll see you, okay?”

She doesn’t wait for him to reply, just gets her bag and runs out. She doesn’t think she stops running until she’s home. And then the full realization hits her.

Every moment they’ve ever had, every inside joke, every little move they’ve gotten used to doing in sync –

It’s all gone now.

It’s all fucking gone because she, Clarke Griffin, fucked up the one good thing she had.

 

*

 

Days pass in a blur. Clarke calls Kane to let him know that she won’t be coming back and when he says how sorry he is to hear that, he means it. Clarke’s heart never stops squeezing painfully in her chest, stomach plummeting whenever her phone pings and she knows it’s Bellamy. She keeps it on silent for two weeks, finds ten missed calls every evening.

Raven brings by a bottle of whiskey and they blast loud music but they don’t dance.

“I’m so sorry, Griffin,” she says, Clarke’s head leaning on her shoulder. “It won’t be the same without you.”

When he stops calling, he starts texting.

_Can you please talk to me?_

_Clarke, I need to talk to you._

_I’m sorry._

_Please, just call me._

_I miss you. Am I allowed to say that? I really do._

_Fuck._

_Please, Clarke._

_Raven says you don’t want to talk to me. I get that. I’m sorry, I won’t bother you anymore. I hope only great things come your way. Thank you for everything._

True to his word, he stops texting. He stops calling. Somehow, seeing no missed calls from him at the end of the day is worse than seeing ten.

And so it goes.

 

*

 

** June 2016 **

****

“No, Charlotte, it’s fine,” she assures the little girl with neat little braids, her favorite student. Teachers shouldn’t pick favorites but Clarke isn’t discriminating, she’s just got a soft spot for kids who are trying their darndest to persevere even if life hasn’t given them anything but shit.

Charlotte wipes her hands with the towel. “Can I show you my drawing?”

Clarke smiles at her. “It’d be an honor.”

As the girl skips away to her desk, Clarke leans back on the little sink. The thing she loves most about being an elementary school art teacher is that these kids enjoy what they’re doing. Only one or two are really talented, but it doesn’t matter. The rest make up for it by coating their fingertips in paint and sticking clay to their hair, all in passion of creating something new.

When she thinks about dancing – that’s what she misses. It was always messy and imperfect with Bellamy, but it didn’t matter. They loved dancing and pure passion shone through. It was like being a kid again, unburdened by how her body looked as she moved; all that mattered was that her feet wanted to follow the rhythm.

Charlotte puts her drawing on Clarke’s desk, hands clasped behind her back as she waits for approval. “I couldn’t find the yellow crayon, Miss Griffin.”

Clarke takes the drawing into her hands, smiles when she sees her hair painted orange instead of yellow. Somehow, it looks even better, all frizzy and messy. At least there’s a smile plastered across her face.

“This is great, Charlotte. Thank you.”

Charlotte nods politely, averting her gaze, and Clarke is just about to tell her that she should be proud of what she’s done when a new voice cuts across the vibrant silence kids left behind after class.

“Can _I_ see it?”

She looks up so fast she thinks her neck might break and then she’s meeting his eyes, warm and dark and rich like chocolate sticking to her fingertips in the middle of the summer. Bellamy Blake is standing in the doorway of her classroom, all constricted movement and hesitant smiles.

Charlotte’s eyes flick at Clarke and she smiles at the girl. “Don’t worry, this is my – “ Is there a name for someone you almost loved?

“Friend. I’m Miss Griffin’s friend,” he supplies, crossing the few steps to her desk. Then he crouches next to Charlotte, studying the drawing. Clarke isn’t sure whether to be annoyed with him or oddly endeared by how serious he is. “You drew this?”

Charlotte nods.

“It’s amazing. I like Miss Griffin’s hair. It’s just like the sun.”

His eyes are expectant and Clarke finds her hands empty of whatever he’s come to look for.

“If that’s all, Charlotte, thank you for the drawing and I’ll see you on Monday, okay?”

They stand facing each other until Charlotte leaves, and it’s odd. It’s just like they’re waiting for a beat to start dancing except that they don’t have daring smiles on their faces now. A blank mask is on Clarke’s as she tries not to give away her rapid heartbeat and hope that’s bared its teeth. And Bellamy just looks soft, at odds with his hard edges and sure moves, watching her and waiting.

When the door is closed, Clarke slumps against the blackboard and asks, “What are you doing here?”

There are two Bellamy Blakes Clarke has gotten to know. The first one is cocky, all smirks and lascivious smiles. It’s the one who dances like the whole world is his stage, does it with reckless abandon dripping from his skin.

The other Bellamy is nervous, frenetic movements. It’s the one who ducks his head when the tips of his ears go pink. It’s the one who finishes his sentences with question marks even where there shouldn’t be any.

The one standing in front of her now is a mixture of both and Clarke doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I came to apologize for my reaction when you – “ he trails off, averting his gaze.

“When I kissed you,” Clarke finishes for him, crossing her arms at her chest. She did it, she wishes she hadn’t, but it’s what happened anyways. The truth may hurt but it still demands to be said.

“Yes. I understand now that you took it as rejection but, God, Clarke.” He shakes his head, laughing incredulously. “It really wasn’t. I was just surprised.”

She wants to smother the hope flaring in her chest now, afternoon light spilling onto his face. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened. It almost makes her want to dance with him, ruffle his hair even more, get that June heat out of her system.

“I never thought you could actually like me after I was an asshole to you so, you know,” fingers running through his hair, shrugging, “I didn’t dare hope.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He screws up his face, raises his eyebrows. “You think?”

“I know,” she mirrors his words, feeling a smile drawing the corners of her mouth up, up, up. “Think you can do better?”

Bellamy laughs, loud and surprised, but he nods. “I _know_ I can do better.” A beat of silence and then, as kids in the playground outside begin chanting an easy rhyme, “Dance with me?”

Clarke rounds the table, hits her hip against it in haste, making Bellamy chuckle, fond and exasperated. He takes her right hand in his and places her left on his waist. Sure, solid, familiar all the same.

Familiar, when she finds a question in his eyes – _you ready?_ – like she has so many times before. Sure, when she nods and he starts moving. Solid, as he holds her close like he thinks that this is it, it’s either this or he’s going to have to let go forever.

The kids keep on chanting and they dance amidst scattered papers, bits of clay sticking to the desks and vivid colors turned brighter by the low sunlight streaming through the windows.

It’s not graceful or elegant, but he doesn’t dare look away, just smiles as they twirl around the room, lost in the best possible way.

When his gaze drops to her lips, Clarke tries again. She halts their movements and props herself up on her toes, waiting just a second for his go ahead. When his smile melts into slow and lazy, he whispers, “Do you even have to ask?”

This time, when she kisses him, he kisses back, his hands sliding into her hair and then bringing her closer by the nape of her neck. This time, he does it like he’s been practicing it, like he wasn’t sure before but now can’t be any firmer in his decision. Their kiss turns from slow to all-encompassing and it’s a battle they’re familiar with, push and pull, playful teasing and Clarke biting into his lip until she tastes blood.

He laughs, breaking the kiss when it’s turned into fervor and teeth clashing, falling out of rhythm because they always did well with order but they do even better with chaos. “So that’s how it’s gonna be?”

She nods. “Yeah. That’s how it’s gonna be.”

“Good,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across her lips. His gaze is intense but it doesn’t make her want to get away. It only makes her want to step closer until there’s no line between where Bellamy ends and Clarke begins. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

When they move to the music of reckless joy outside, it’s not a fight. The rest of the world falls away and there’s just this – Bellamy and Clarke, warm light and sound pouring from the outside, their clasped hands and bodies moving in sync.

They’re good on their own. But they are always going to be better together.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so because I've become contemporary dance trash, here's what I had in mind: [this is the first group dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBISmPiOtDU) (it's super cute and I'm a little in love), [this is Just Give Me a Reason](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9ymaoQHJN4)(AKA one of Bellarke duets), and [this choreography to Elastic Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dHNzEz_VIcQ) owns my ass. Seriously, check them out, they're amazing.
> 
> Other than that - thank you all so, so much for reading! You are all amazing and if you liked it, please let me know - kudos & comments are a great way to do that! If someone made me choose between cookies and that two, I'd pick kudos and comments, jsyk.
> 
> p.s. i'm also on [tumblr](http://marauders-groupie.tumblr.com) \- currently not taking prompts but always willing to scream about bellarke. :)


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